


Meeting Uncle Clark

by octoaliencowboy



Series: Bat Family Comedy AU [4]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: All hail uncle Clark, Dick is baby, Gen, I’ve never written in his POV before so. Just take this, Not Beta Read, eating of ice cream, family comedy au, no capes AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 15:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18166706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoaliencowboy/pseuds/octoaliencowboy
Summary: Dick is Baby, Clark is a real knight in shining armour and Bruce is new to this whole “dad” thing. Somehow this all adds up to the birth of a lifelong friendship.





	Meeting Uncle Clark

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to write this little bit of Family Comedu AU lore

Clark sighed heavily as he walked back to the party from the men’s room, taking his sweet time through the winding hallways. Stuffy, upscale events like this were always Clark’s least favourite thing to cover for the daily planet. But he didn’t exactly have room to complain. He was still fairly new at this reporting job, so he was stuck on lifestyle articles only until he proved himself worthy of being a serious writer. 

 

There was just nothing interesting ever happening at these parties. And so far nothing interesting had happened at this one. 

 

Sure, the charity was important, but Clark wasn’t even supposed to be writing about the charity, which might have been worthwhile. He had to talk about who was talking to who, who was on their fourth wife, what everyone was wearing… all the things that made Clark feel like his brain cells were dying in real time. 

 

Clark took a left turn, then a right, then another left, cursing the fact that the bathrooms were so far away from the main event hall. He adjusted his glasses as he looked around, confused. Had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? He didn’t recognize this hallway. 

 

Suddenly a faint noise caught his attention. It sounded like… a child crying? Clark spun around, looking for the source of the noise. 

 

“Hello? Is there someone here?” He asked. The crying stopped suddenly. 

 

Down the hall, a decorative plant moved. 

 

Clark approached the plant. Slowly he pushed the large, plastic leaves aside, revealing a small, tear-streaked face. 

 

“Ah,” squeaked the child. He had an accent, that sounded partly French and partly like his voice couldn’t decide what accent it had. “Hello.” 

 

“Hello…” Clark said. 

 

The child crawled out from behind the plant, wiping tears off his face. He was wearing a suit that despite being child sized probably still cost more than Clark made in half a year. It was slightly rumpled from its wearer being curled up in a ball between a decorative plant and the wall. Clark was stunned. What was a kid even doing here? Where had he come from? Where were his parents?

 

“Uh,” Clark kneeled down so he was eye level with the kid. “What’s your name, kid?”

 

“Richard,” sniffled the kid. He said it like Ree-shard. “But everyone calls me Dick. What’s yours?” 

 

“My name is Clark,” Clark said. “Where are your parents, Dick?” 

 

“In heaven.” Dick said without missing a beat. Clark felt his stomach plummet through the floor. Oh, god. Oh fuck. Okay. Agh. No time to unpack that. 

 

“Uh…” Clark floundered. “Okay. Um. Why were you crying, Dick?” 

 

Dick looked down at his shiny, tiny shoes. Tears welled up in his eyes again. “I did a bad thing, and now Broose is going to be mad at me…” he whispered. “And I don’t want to go back to juvie.” 

 

Clark frowned. Broose…? Oh, Bruce! Bruce  _ Wayne _ ! Clark has heard vaguely about a Bruce Wayne taking in some kid, and the ruckus caused by that, that was, what, a few months ago? Clark internally smacked himself for not connecting the dots sooner. 

 

His heart clenched painfully as Dick’s tears started to fall again, rolling heavily down his round cheeks. Clark sat down cross legged against the wall, and before Clark could even think about stopping him Dick was clambering into his lap and wrapping his teeny little arms tightly around his neck. 

 

“What bad thing, Dick?” Clark asked softly, putting a comforting hand on the little boy’s back. 

 

“Broose said not to leave his side but— but I ran away. And I asked so much to come with him to this party because the Manor is so empty and cold and I missed the people, but I don’t like the people here!” Dick wailed. “They say nice words but their eyes are  _ mean _ and they whisper mean things when they think I can’t hear and I don’t understand why they all hate me! Everyone hates me except Broose and Alfred but now I did a bad thing so Broose is going to hate me too and he’ll send me back to juvie but  _ I _ want to go  _ home _ !”

 

“Aw, Dick,” Clark winced. He was baffled _.  _ He was a complete stranger to Dick and yet the kid was sobbing loudly into his shoulder, getting snot and tears all over his (admittedly cheap, ill fitting) suit. Clark has to wonder just how lonely he was-- if his memory served him correctly, Dick had spent the last ten years of his life in the circus, a place that was surely chock full of people who loved him. And now all that was gone. “I don’t hate you, not one bit.”

 

Dick extracted his face from Clark’s neck. “Truly?” 

 

“Yeah. I think you’re a very nice kid. Anyone who doesn’t like you must not be very smart, or nice, and you shouldn’t worry about them. And they’re definitely not worth your tears.” 

 

“Thank you, monsieur Clark.” Dick said with a watery little smile. 

 

“No problem, Dickie.” Clark has no choice but to smile back. “No, why don’t we go find Bruce? I’m sure he’s worried sick. Then he can take you home.” 

 

That suggestion only turned Dick’s mood sour again. The little boy shook his head, curls flying everywhere. “No,” he mumbled. “I meant my home in the circus. But the manor would be nice too, I guess, if Broose doesn’t send me back to juvie anyway.”

 

Clark quickly backtracked. 

 

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” he said. “That’s not going to happen. I’ll go with you, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t send you away, okay? I promise.” 

 

Dick nodded. “Okay.” He conceded. “But you have to carry me.” 

 

That seemed like a fair deal. Clark stood up, Dick still wrapped securely in his arms, and started making his way back through the unfamiliar halls to the party. Dick pointed the way as they went. 

 

Soon they could hear the sounds of the party again and before they knew it they were back in the grand ballroom full of people dancing and talking. 

 

Almost immediately a shout caught Clark’s attention. 

 

“ _ Dickie _ !” 

 

Pushing through the crowd came none other than Bruce Wayne, looking frazzled and running towards Clark and Dick at inadvisable speeds for such a polished floor. He skidded to a stop right in front of them, panic clear on his face. 

 

“Are you okay, chum? Where did you go? I’ve been worried sick! Don’t  _ ever _ — wait, have you been crying? Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?” Bruce rambled, reaching out to pull Dick into his arms and squeeze him tight. Clark’s heart softened at the sight. Bruce didn’t look like he had any intentions of sending Dick away— or letting him out of his sight ever again. 

 

Dick gave his guardian a watery smile. “I’m okay,” he said, wiping the last traces of tears off his cheeks. “I tried to find the bathroom but got lost. Monsieur Clark found me.”

 

Clark had to fight down a frown at how easily Dick’s lie slipped out, but he didn’t try to correct the little boy’s story. Even if he wasn’t sure why he wouldn’t tell Bruce why he was really crying. Surely, the kid had his reasons. 

 

Bruce looked at Clark then. He clapped a hand on the reporter’s shoulder. “ _ Thank you _ .” He said, and Clark was almost taken aback by the force of his gratitude. He let out a little, awkward laugh. 

 

“Don’t thank me too much,” he said. “The only reason I found him was because I was lost, too.”

 

The billionaire guffawed at that, then bounced Dick in his arms a couple of times. “Say, chum, what do you say we blow this popsicle stand? Let’s go get ice cream.” 

 

The little boys eyes shone, and this time he didn’t seem to be acting at all. “Yes!” He smiled at his guardian, then at Clark. “Can monsieur Clark come with us?” 

 

Bruce seemed to consider this for a moment, regarding Clark suspiciously. Clark straightened his back, unwilling to be intimidated by a high society airhead like Bruce Wayne. 

 

“Okay.” Bruce finally said. He shook Clark’s hand. “Nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Bruce Wayne.” 

 

Clark scoffed. “Yeah, I know. Clark Kent.” 

 

“You work for the daily planet?” 

 

Clark raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t expected Bruce to recognize his name. “Yeah,” 

 

Bruce smirked at him like he’d read his mind. “I make it a point to know who out there is writing about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. So I can keep an eye out for articles about me.” 

 

Dick interrupted them, squirming violently in his guardian’s hold. “ _ Broose _ , let’s  _ go  _ already!”

 

The socialite laughed, adjusting his hold on the wriggling boy. “Alright, alright.” He started making his way through the crowd to the entrance, then turned to look at Clark over his shoulder, his expectant expression mirrored on little Dickie’s young face. “Coming, Kent?” 

 

Clark followed them out of the venue and Dick cheered. He waited with them for the valet to bring Bruce’s eye-bulgingly expensive car around, laughed when Dick pouted at not being allowed to sit in the front seat ( _ you’re too small and I am  _ **_not_ ** _ going to be an irresponsible parent in front of the news reporter, Bruce had said _ ) and admittedly did not fight at all when Bruce paid for his ice cream, too, at a fancy parlour downtown. After all, only one of them was a literal billionaire and it sure as hell wasn’t Clark. 

 

The ice cream was perfect, regardless of the fact that it cost so much. It was a hot summer night, and the three of them ate their ice cream on a bench outside, relishing in the occasional cool breeze that passed by. Bruce had his ice cream in a bowl, so that he wouldn’t have to worry about drips while he wiped Dick’s face with a napkin every two minutes. The kid seemed to be on a mission to make an incorrigible mess of his face and hands while miraculously also managing not to get any drips of his licorice flavoured dessert (an odd flavour to be preferred by a ten year old, Clark thought) on his expensive suit. Clark watched in amusement from the other side of Dick as Bruce fussed over his young ward, thinking the man looked very fatherly doing so. 

 

He knew a fair amount of people had been awfully skeptical about  _ Brucie Wayne _ ’s ability to take care of a little kid, but from what Clark had seen tonight, he seemed to be doing a pretty alright job.

 

Dick chattered nearly the whole time. Clark felt a mild sense of whiplash-- this excitable little kid was almost a whole one-eighty from the miserable child he’d met in the hall. But still, a nonstop stream of questions and commentary flowed from Dick’s mouth, all through the eating of their ice cream and back into the car, until he managed to talk himself to sleep in the backseat. 

 

Bruce insisted on giving Clark a ride home, and Clark insisted that was too much, he could get a taxi back like he’d gotten one to the gala, but Bruce wouldn’t hear it. So Clark put his address into the gps system and they were off. The ride was mostly silent except for the occasional chime of the audio navigation. They didn’t want to wake Dick up, but Clark could sense there was something Bruce wanted to say to him. What that might be, though, Clark had no idea.

 

He found out when they finally arrived at his apartment and Bruce offered to walk him to the door. 

 

“I want to thank you again, for finding Dick.” Bruce said. He glanced back at the car where Dick was still snoozing in the backseat. “You seem like a good man, Clark. I’m glad it was you who found him and not someone with a more sinister motive.”

 

“Of course,” Clark said immediately. “He’s a really sweet kid. I’d hate for something bad to happen to him.” 

 

“Too much already has.” Bruce sighed, and Clark considered what Dick said to him earlier that evening, in the hallway. 

 

“When I found him, he, uh,” The reporter started, a little uncertain as to whether it was his place to say this. “He seemed  _ really _ upset. He was scared you were mad at him for-- getting lost. I think you should, um, you should make sure he knows he has a place where he belongs, in your life. That he’s loved.”

 

A minute of tense silence passed as Bruce seemed to think on this, frowning slightly. Eventually, he nodded. “I will.” Then in the same beat, he said “Can I have your number?” 

 

Clark blinked. “Uh, I’m not—“ 

 

“I am,” Bruce interrupted with another smirk. “But that’s not why I asked. Dick likes you, I like you, and I need more journalist friends anyway. Now give me your number.” 

 

Before he realized what he was doing Clark was accepting the unlocked cell phone in Bruce’s extended hand (one of those new iPhone 4s’) and adding himself as a contact. He handed the phone back, and Bruce walked back to the car with a grin and a “See you soon.” For some reason, Clark didn’t doubt that for a second. 

  
  
  


His article ended up being not about who was talking to who at that gala, who was on their fourth wife  _ or _ what anyone was wearing, but instead about what a pure delight Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s youthful new ward, was— and how he was sweet and precocious, liked to climb people and eat licorice ice cream, and anyone who wasn’t immediately enamoured with him was out of their minds. 

 

A few days later an envelope was delivered to Clark’s desk at the daily planet, containing a thank you note and a pencil crayon drawing of him, Bruce and Dick eating ice cream together— labelled ‘To Uncle Clark, From Dickie’.

  
  
  


The drawing has been framed and sitting on his desk for the last six years, now. 


End file.
